


Osprey

by Rohirrim_Writer



Category: Frozen - Fandom
Genre: Game of Thrones - Freeform, Incest, M/M, Original Character(s), Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28949958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rohirrim_Writer/pseuds/Rohirrim_Writer
Summary: Fanwork and interpretations about the Game of Thrones x Frozen fanfiction written by RonnieWriting featuring Original Characters and Hans created by RonnieWriting.
Kudos: 3





	Osprey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RonnieWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieWriting/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Tide of Ice and Blood (Beta)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23559538) by [RonnieWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieWriting/pseuds/RonnieWriting). 



His mother had raped him on the same beach she birthed him upon. She had done this for each of his brothers she said, though they never spoke of it, it was necessary she said. Such was the tradition of Southgaard for hundreds of years. He wondered if mothers raped their daughters too. 

Women came willingly enough after that, but his mother had been the first. When he was 16 he took one to the beach, just to see what it would feel like. He’d made her spread her legs just so and lay bare before the Gods and fates and everyone. He took her like he’d wished he could that day, harsh and violent, with a hand at her throat. 

It wasn’t until it was all over that he realized she’d been dead for some time. He wiped himself off on her discarded shift and strung his braguette closed. He tossed the soiled garment over her cooling body and made his way back to the castle doors. 

He’d always known he would never inherit. He had too many brothers and is too far down the line for that. The kingdom was already awash with red-haired bastards, since there was no fear that a peasants child would become king. He’d seen the older ones come from behind castle doors. He wondered if his brothers knew they slept with their blood. 

Still, his life came with duties, which he performed with little joy. Joy was nothing that he had tasted in his life. Something like it perhaps-fleeting pleasure, twisted satisfaction, cursory gratification-but he had seen it before. 

He had been riding through farmland and happened upon a child, playing with a small rabbit, nothing more than a kit. The child’s scent would be on its fur now. It’s mother would never take the kit back. It would suffer and die. He killed it. Trampled it beneath his horse's hooves. He’d watched something leave the child and only then did he know it was joy. 

It seemed a foolish thing to indulge in. 

The expression on the boy’s face as he played with the kit lingered with him. Even as he prepared for sleep that night. He wished for someone to stroke his fur and tickle his ears as the boy had, figuratively. He wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such joy. 

He found his way to his mother’s chambers. Was this not where children sought comfort? Would not the kit have returned to its burrow? 

He entered without knocking. His mother lay asleep surrounded by linens of white. Her hair did not look so red under the moon. It was down as it never was in her waking hours. He had never seen it thus before. He stripped himself even as he came to her bed, to fall into her sheets, like a child falling into a wave. 

He was no child, but a man, and she woke instantly to put a dagger to his throat. 

“Why are you here?” She demanded, lest he forget she was Queen. 

“I have come to your bed mother, to hold congress.” He would secure his political place in her bed. 

“Get out, kit.” She rebuked. She took her blade from his neck to place it once again beneath her pillow, uncaring of the blood that stained her sheets. 

“You would deny your son his pleasure?” She did not see him even as a threat, for all his years and might, and now she would not see him for his virility. 

“You are no son of mine.” Before the cock crowed, she denied him thrice. 

He left, clothes left behind on the floor of his mother’s chambers. He met no one in the halls but guards and maids and he had no interest in either. Down he stormed through the levels of the castle until he came to the sea. To the beach. 

The sea was swollen with the tide, pregnant with moonlight, and the rabid waves frothed. He looked to the high tower, to where his Mother stood by the window watching, and stepped into the sea. 

Countless children were lost to these waves, but as a man he stood stoic. The salt water burned at the cut at his throat, but the burning would make him clean. The sea would wash him clean. 

When he left the waves, the window was empty, and his mother gone. 

He didn’t see her again until the delegation meeting. She didn’t look his way. No one looked his way. Many of the twelve chairs for his brothers sat empty. He could fade into the background of the annals of history like them. There was nothing for him. His life was a meaningless parade of gluttony. 

He looked around the room at the table full of people vying for power. Joy was not the currency of this world. Joy would not give you a title. Joy would not grant sovereignty. 

He looked to the spare. Arren, who would not flinch should a sword fall upon him, such was his stoicism. Surely, many have tried. His brothers had tried on more than one occasion to take his own life and he was of no consequence. 

What must it be like? To be the only son of a King and Queen? For that was what Arren truly was, the only son worth mentioning, the only son of value. He would wed the Queen of Aren Fell and then even Randar would bow to him. He had not heard his own name spoken from the mouth of his parent’s since his childhood. Perhaps before then. 

Arren never looked to him either, had he, he might have been mistaken for a servant. He watched him until the meeting was over. He never spoke out of turn, only carefully and menacingly. He commanded in a way his father even sometimes lacked. He never fidgeted, never fussed, he got that from their mother. 

He waited until the meeting was over, until the last guest had gone, and only he and Arren still remained. 

“Why do you watch me Magnus?” He asked from where he sat at the head of the table with an air of inconsequence. It would not matter how Magnus answered to him. It seemed Arren saw fit to play with his mouse. 

“You know my name?” Arren had never spoken to him in his years, not once, they were not even kept in the same part of the castle. Best to keep the best stock from the lowly. 

“Do not insult me. I am the second of twelve and heir to the throne, I know every bastard and braggart in this kingdom with whom I share blood.” Arren’s eyes lifted from his documents to pierce Magnus and flay him open like a knife.

“Do you think me foolish enough to take my eye from my enemy, when he lies in wait in the brush?” He stood and stalked closer, to where Magnus lingered by the door, and stopped a few feet away. Even now he did not sully himself with the common. 

“Is that what you are Magnus? A snake in the grass?” His eyes regarded him, slithering up and down his body, before resting once again on his eyes. 

_ Get out, kit _ . 

No. 

He was no snake, but the cowering rabbit, in its grasp. 

“No.” He replied.

“Then why do you  _ stare _ .” He spoke with the command of someone who knew they had the world at their fingertips and the sun and moon beyond it. 

“To contemplate if it is more fruitful to bow to the one who wears the crown or the one the crown will bow to.” He spoke treason and risked being killed for it. 

“If you think me a King why do you not address me so?” His expression remained the same all the while, only changing to raise one eyebrow a fraction. 

“If that is your wish, your majesty.” He conceded.

“It is.” 

“Then it shall be done, your highness.” The exchange was complete and Magnus had succeeded where he had failed. 

“And will you bow to me?” There was no question. To secure his future, to secure his place, Magnus would prostrate himself for flagellation. 

Magnus moved to his knees. He felt like a whore, if whores hungered for power. 

“What else would you do for me I wonder?” Even as he said it, it was obvious he knew the answer. 

“Anything, my liege.” After all, what choice did he have now?

“I expect no less.” 

The first time Arren sent for him it was but a small thing. He was to ride day and night to find him the nest of an Osprey, with the eggs inside. He returned with the animal dead, and one small hatched bird crying for its mother, amongst his unborn siblings. Arren crushed it in his fist. Magnus kept the Osprey. 

The second time Arren sends for him he is to dispose of a servant boy who lay dead in his chambers. He did not look up from the letter he was writing as Magnus dragged him away. He burned the body and left the blackened bones in the field. 

The third time Arren called on him he did not take his eyes from him. 

This was what he must do to be indispensable to the new King. He was not weak, he was a rat, who could not be drowned. He carried poison in his blood and when the snake struck, they both would die. 


End file.
